


Interruptions

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Also Geralt has Peak Sub Energy Send Tweet, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt's Brothers Don't Know What A Closed Door Means, It's Going To Be A Long Winter..., Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: He’s not an idiot. Wintering at Kaer Morhen was always going to be a challenge. Geralt told him as much. There was the climb, obviously. Perched on top of an arrogantly tall mountain sat the keep, and the trails leading up to it were designed for Witchers and Witchers only. Geralt could get him there fine enough. He told him about other non-Witchers who had visited and lodged for the season over the years. But that wouldn’t be the last of their struggles.One of them, revealed one night as they lay dosing and sated in some generic inn sat on a merchant’s crossroads, was about Geralt’s brothers.--Eskel and Lambert do not know what a Closed Door means.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 642
Collections: Click Here If You’re Looking for a Distraction from the 2020 Presidential Election





	Interruptions

He’s not an idiot. Wintering at Kaer Morhen was always going to be a challenge. Geralt told him as much. There was the climb, obviously. Perched on top of an arrogantly tall mountain sat the keep, and the trails leading up to it were designed for Witchers and Witchers only. Geralt could get him there fine enough. He told him about other non-Witchers who had visited and lodged for the season over the years. But that wouldn’t be the last of their struggles.

One of them, revealed one night as they lay dosing and sated in some generic inn sat on a merchant’s crossroads, was about Geralt’s brothers. Jaskier’s interests peaked. The Witcher was so closed off about himself that any sliver of information he let slip was lapped up instant. He tried not to seem too keen; dusting his fingers over Geralt’s sweat-sheen chest and listening with bated breath about what the Witcher would say.

“They’re...”

He can still remember the firm line frowning Geralt’s brow as he struggled to find the right words.

“They’re a lot.”

On the march towards the foot of the mountain, Jaskier learned more and more about Geralt’s brothers. Their names, firstly. He had gone seasons without knowing the Witcher even had any siblings. _I don’t_ , Geralt said while they strolled down a dirt road. _We’re not brothers by blood. But they’re still the closest thing to a family I have_.

And it made Jaskier’s heart ache.

_They’ll expect you to pull your weight._

_Lambert can be a prick, but he’ll mellow out eventually._

_Don’t tell Eskel you went to Oxenfurt. He’ll never leave you alone about the books you read there._

_They don’t know the meaning of a closed door._

The last one had him intrigued. Who were the wolves bringing up to the keep that they had to keep a door closed? He didn’t want the sorceress’ name echoing around his head, but it did – even though Geralt assured him that Yennefer never even graced the province of Kaedwen with her presence, let alone stepped out of a portal into the keep’s cold and hollow halls.

Jaskier had his questions. He could imagine young wolf pups, their bodies maturing and revealing new and fascinating things. And if they all lived in an enclosed space together...

It seemed to be like that in most places, especially where the youth were concerned. The college was the same. Within the first month, the local healers would be sold out of lotions and salves for any manner of illness picked up by youths fucking their way through whole dormitories. Jaskier grew up within a noble household; where maids and stableboys were daily interactions. And if one or two happened to fall into his bed, so what? Oxenfurt turned even the most innocent of blushing maidens into hardened women with nerves of steel wherever sex was concerned.

So Jaskier can only imagine what Witchers would be like.

They must have seen and heard quite a deal within their keep if they’re comfortable barging into a room to deliver a message from Vesemir. Because that’s what happened on that first morning. He didn’t have to imagine for long.

They weren’t exposed, thank the entire council of gods. Still buried underneath blankets and furs, Jaskier merely sprawled over his Witcher, luring soft, sweet kisses out of him. A barely-awake Geralt was a pliant one, a wolf with dulled teeth who rumbled and smiled into long, languid kisses.

Then the door flew open and a blonde-haired wolf trotted in. In the haste to fling himself off of Geralt and grab a sheet to hold over himself, despite managing to keep his sleep-pants on, he missed what the message was entirely.

Geralt grunted, reaching for one of the many spare pillows against the headboard and flung it ask Eskel’s head. “Get the fuck out,” he growled, tightening his arm around his bard. “And fucking _knock_ next time.”

Eskel arched an eyebrow. He took one look at the small tuft of shaggy brown hair sticking out from the blankets and hummed, stalking out of the room but leaving the door slightly ajar.

“ _For fuck sake_.”

And Jaskier’s soft, morning, pliant Witcher was gone.

* * *

The keep, backed up against the mountain, seems to sprawl on for miles in every direction. Stairs lead to overbearing towers that look out on to the paths leading away from the keep, while there were too many rooms for Jaskier to count. He keeps himself on a familiar path to the rooms he knows. A grand dining hall with five places set for the winter; a kitchen; Geralt’s room up in one of the towers; Vesemir’s library and apothecary. If he wanders anywhere else, he may be lost for the rest of the season.

Vicious winds howl outside. They’re muted between thick walls of stone, and a long, languid sigh from Jaskier as he sinks into the warm waters of the underground baths. A spring struck out from the mountain, with the keep built over it. He had wondered why none of the shrill cold breezes managed to slip in through the cracks in the walls. Apart from having his pups routinely come up and repoint stones and fill them back in with fresh mortar, Vesemir told him that because of the location of the hot spring, the steam rising up will warm the walls and rooms. By the time the water trickles down the mountain and hills below, it’s cooled – keeping the secret of their spring secret.

Geralt wades further into the spring, ducking his head down and soaking his hair. Jaskier sits by the edge, letting the water lap against his chest. His vials of lotions and soaps sit nearby. Familiar scents that he likes on himself, and on his Witcher. Sometimes Geralt lets him use them on his hair and skin. Other times, he just scents Jaskier himself.

When the Witcher returns to him, his skin reddened with the heat of the water, Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request.

Geralt’s smile is lazy and fond. He dips down and kisses Jaskier, humming as the bard tilts his head and tries to deepen the kiss. Hands wander and skirt along any mile of skin they can find. The bard curls an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt’s hands catch him by the hips and suddenly, he’s hoisted out of the water. Jaskier muffles a squawk against the Witcher’s lips as Geralt turns them; sitting on to the edge of the pool and settling Jaskier into his lap.

Jaskier sets their foreheads together. “Warn a person before you manhandle them,” he mumbles, his lips deliciously numbed and tingling from the kiss.

Geralt hums, his smile only growing. “You like when I manhandle you,” he rasps, leaning forward for another kiss. The Witcher’s hands settle by Jaskier’s waist, holding, but not keeping him there. He could move off if he wanted to. But why would he? Geralt is warm and soft, and every pass of his fingers over his skin lights him on fire. Why in the names of all of the gods would he want to stop?

Their kiss breaks when the need for air grows too strong. Jaskier doesn’t go too far away, still happily settled on Geralt’s lap and his arms limply draped over the Witcher’s shoulders. Jaskier eyes his glass vials and bottles. “I wanted to wash you.”

“You can,” Geralt hums, “you have me pinned right here. I won’t bother your work.” The way those golden eyes glint, Jaskier can’t take the Witcher for his word. Even beneath him, he can feel the Witcher’s cock stirring. Granted, it doesn’t help that Jaskier shifts and grinds his hips in ways he knows drives Geralt insane.

So he reaches for something smelling like desert roses; musky, yet sweet like bergamot. Something that won’t have the Witcher grumbling about smelling too much like a meadow, and won’t shrivel up his nose and overwhelm him. He lets a palmful of oil gather on his hand before he sets about sweeping his hands over every stretch of skin he can find. Geralt leans back, letting Jaskier at his shoulders and chest and abdomen. When he ventures low enough, he tries to shake the smirk threatening to curl his lip when Geralt’s breath starts to hitch.

A growl rumbles out of him when Jaskier’s hands go elsewhere. “Patience, my love,” Jaskier soothes, “we have all winter.”

“I’m not waiting all winter for you to touch me,” Geralt growls, leaning forward. The hands he has on Jaskier’s hips tighten, fingers digging into the grooves of his hips. Some far off part of him wishes for marks. He can’t leave any of his own on the Witcher. They fade during the night. But he loves being riddled with bruises and marks from his Witcher’s fingers or teeth.

And Geralt knows just how much he likes it.

He sets his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, soft kisses dotted along the line before he starts trailing down the column of his neck. And if his hands stutter on his journey around Geralt’s chest, well that’s on the Witcher. His breath catches at the first graze of teeth.

Fine.

Two can play at that game.

He grinds his hips down on Geralt’s lap. A rumbling groan echoes out of the Witcher’s chest. The hands on his hips guide him, angling him just right until a hard cock pressing into the cleft of his ass. “Gods alive,” Jaskier gasps, tilting his head to the side to let Geralt do _whatever he likes_ —

“Room for one more?”

The rumbling voice is like a bucket of ice water over him. Jaskier tightens his grip around Geralt’s shoulders and uses the man to hide from prying eyes.

Geralt grunts, leaving Jaskier’s neck. And Jaskier just about manages to swallow a whine.

The Witcher looks over his shoulder. “What the fuck do you want?” Something blooms and churns in Jaskier’s core at the sound of the Witcher’s voice, still heavy and rasping.

Peering over the crown of Geralt’s head, Jaskier spots a wolf. Just as well-built as the rest of them, with wild red curls beginning to frizz from the heat in the cavern; and already shirtless, Jaskier notes, as the piece of clothing is caught in the Witcher’s hand. Lambert snorts. “It’s a communal bath,” he says, tossing his shirt on to a marble bench near the wall. Geralt’s and Jaskier’s clothes sit in piles nearby. “If you want privacy, this is a bad place.”

“Didn’t stop you and that Cat last season,” Geralt rumbles.

Jaskier just about manages to clamp down on the urge to jolt backwards as some item of clothing comes striking through the air. Geralt catches it and tosses it back – Geralt’s own boot, Jaskier recognises.

The Witcher underneath him grunts as he shifts both him and Jaskier further into the pool; his cock forgotten about and, unfortunately, starting to wither. “Arsehole,” Geralt bites over his shoulder.

Lambert chuckles under his breath. “Prick.”

* * *

“You should just lock the door.”

“Do you honestly think that will stop them?”

“A _deadbolt_ ,” Jaskier says insistently. He waves his hand. “And you can enchant it with some of your Witcher-y magic.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’m not a sorcerer or warlock. I can’t enchant anything.”

Jaskier looks at him over the top of his book. Lounging against the many pillows Geralt likes to stuff up against the headboard of the bed, he stretches out and settles his feet on to Geralt’s lap – his sword and whetstone be damned. “Fine,” he says primly, turning back to his book.

“Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Yes, you are.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, words perched and poised on the tip of his tongue. But they’re swallowed when the Witcher sets his blades and whetstone aside, and sets his hands to Jaskier’s bared feet instead. A level glare manages to stay on the bard’s face for a moment before a small smile tugs at the corner of his lip.

Geralt’s fingers are firm and sure things, knowing where on Jaskier’s arch is most sensitive and tough. His toes flex as Geralt works it for a second, before it smoothens out. A deep sigh blows out of his nose. “Up a bit,” Jaskier mumbles, flicking the page of his book. There’s no point, really. He hasn’t been able to read or take in a single word since Geralt perched down on the bed to sharpen his blades.

Geralt dusts his fingers along the arch of Jaskier’s foot. A jolt runs up his leg. Jaskier tries to jerk his leg back, but Geralt wraps a hand firmly around his ankle. “What did you say?” Geralt teases, pressing his fingers back to the spot.

“You’re a fucking monster,” Jaskier gasps, mentally noting what page he’s on in his book and tossing it at Geralt. The Witcher’s grip on his foot just enough for him to yank it back and launch some sort of attack. He clambers up on to Geralt’s lap, catching the Witcher’s wrists and forcing him down on to the bed and pinning his hands by his head. And Geralt has faced off all sorts of monsters over the years. It takes a lot for Jaskier to be able to pin him down; and he thinks he actually hasn’t truly accomplished it yet. Geralt always goes easily.

Looming over the Witcher, Jaskier keeps his lips just a touch away. “Attack me like that again, Geralt of Rivia, and we’re going to have a problem,” he rasps. His hair has been slowly growing out over the season. It hangs down and brushes Geralt’s forehead.

The Witcher lifts his chin, some sort of attempt to catch Jaskier’s lips with his. “A _problem_?” Geralt rumbles, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier dips down, allowing one chaste kiss. He smirks at the small whine that bubbles out of Geralt’s throat when he draws away. He squeezes the wrists captured in his hands. “So how will I know that you’ll keep your hands to yourself?”

Another squeeze.

 _Keep them there_.

When he lets Geralt’s wrists go, letting his hands trail over the Witcher’s arms and shoulders and chest, those hands stay exactly where they were left.

Geralt swallows, letting his head fall back against the plush sheets and furs.

 _Do whatever you want_.

Jaskier delights in it.

Geralt’s neck is his usual hunting ground; a tendon stretching and bobbing with every swallow and trembling breath. Jaskier ghosts his lips over it, smirking at a shiver rattling through the body below him.

He grinds his hips down, swallowing a groan at finding Geralt’s cock already twitching with interest. It doesn’t take long for it to harden and leak. Jaskier’s hips and arse could be classified as weapons with how deftly he can use them.

Geralt’s hands flex and his fingers curl together. He’s desperate, with every brushed kiss and a hint of teeth that scrape at his neck, and every long, slow grind against his cock. He wants to reach out, grab Jaskier and pin him down. Or else help him on to his cock and do _something_ —

“Jask—”

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps thudding outside. “Geralt?”

He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to try and figure out who the voice belongs to. “What?” he snaps.

“Don’t _what_ me, boy,” Vesemir’s biting tone strikes through the door. “Eskel needs help repointing stones along the northern wall.”

Geralt swallows, scolded and just on the edge of desperation – the body still on top of him doesn’t help. “In a minute.”

“You’ll go _now_.” Vesemir steps away from the door, but doesn’t quite leave. “And tell the bard he can come down to the kitchen and help me with dinner.”

Jaskier buries his face into Geralt’s neck, hiding the worst of the flush. _Fuck sake—_ “Of course, Vesemir,” Jaskier calls back out. When he lifts his head, he bears the brunt of a withering glare from the Witcher. “What? You don’t want _him_ coming in and seeing the state of you, do you?”

With that, Geralt swallows his growl, and sits up – half-dislodging Jaskier in the process.

His cock aches. He just wants a minute, to take himself in hand and finish off what he can’t seem to get with the bard. At this point, he might just find them the most secluded clearing in the surrounding forest and have at it.

* * *

Eskel and Lambert are trekking the trails surrounding the keep.

Vesemir will be gone for a whole day, travelling down the mountain to get a supply cart from the village.

This could be the only chance they get.

And the desperation practically _radiates_ off of the Witcher.

Jaskier is barely one step in the door before he’s grabbed, stripped, and tossed on to the bed.

He blinks as Geralt looms over him, leaning down to catch his lips in a deep kiss. Jaskier moans into it, his hands reaching up to card his fingers through the Witcher’s hair. Out of its usual tie, it hangs like a curtain over them.

Geralt’s tunic and breeches disappear with a flourish of movements. Jaskier crawls further up the bed, scrambling to grab a vial of oil the Witcher keeps in a bedside locker. He’s barely back on his back before Geralt is over him and letting oil drip on to his fingers.

“Spread your legs,” Geralt grunts.

A flood of heat washes over Jaskier. His legs part without much effort on his own part, happily giving way for Geralt to draw near and dust an oiled finger along his entrance. The first shocks and tremors of pleasure already shake through him. “Geralt,” he breathes.

At the first push in, Jaskier’s eyes roll. He lets his head fall back on to the pillows, a drawn-out moan aimed at the canopy of Geralt’s bed.

His body knows Geralt’s. It parts for him just as easily as it always does. One finger becomes two, and those two turn and curl upwards and—

“ _Gods alive_ ,” Jaskier groans, reaching for his cock and giving it a few tugs. It spills and leaks against his abdomen, but the pleasure vibrating through him is just too much.

A growl rumbles out of Geralt. Golden eyes are locked on to his hand. “Stop touching yourself,” he bites, twisting his fingers again.

Jaskier’s hand trembles away. A whine claws out of his throat. He likes every version of Geralt he can get in bed. This possessive, abrupt sort of Geralt is always welcome. He lets himself melt into the mattress below him and the pleasure laps and washes over him.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to deem him stretched enough. Peering down at the Witcher’s cock, it’s ruddy and leaking. Geralt is just as desperate for some sort of mutual release as he is.

Geralt catches his thighs and drags him down. Jaskier grunts with the abrupt movement, but Geralt looms over him, completely blanketing him from the outside. He can barely settle himself before Geralt manhandles on thigh up a bit, exposing Jaskier even more, and pushing his cock into him.

The stretch—it’s been too long. Gods only know how much time has passed since he’s been able to get Geralt in him. And it’s like he never left. He’s tight, and Geralt’s big, and his walls tremble around him. And it feels like he’s teetering on the edge already. He bites the flesh of his hand, letting the pain ebb the pleasure away. _No. He’ll make this last._

Geralt keeps his leg up in the air. He’s open and it just lets the Witcher get deeper and deeper into him, and it’s on the right side of being too much. Jaskier crows to the canopy above them. His eyes must glaze or become bleary, because suddenly there’s a change. A handful of thrusts in, just enough to get Jaskier used to taking him again, Geralt moves.

Rough hands grab his hips and within seconds, he’s on his stomach. Jaskier just about gets his knees and elbows underneath him before those same hands tug him backwards, and the Witcher enters him again. A cut-off groan wracks out of him. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt-”

A rough grunt sounds behind him. “Stay still.”

Jaskier curls his fingers into the sheets and buries any choked sounds into the mattress. Sounds that Geralt would usually want rattling through every stone in the keep; but not now, this is for them and them alone.

Geralt’s thrusts are sharp things, knowing exactly how deep to go and brush that spot inside the bard that has him clenching down around him, desperately trying to thrust his hips back against him.

Because gods alive, Geralt can call him a siren, but the Witcher is equally dangerous when it comes to wringing pleasure out of his very bones.

The hands catching Jaskier’s hips only tighten, keeping him exactly when the Witcher wants him. “Talk, bard,” Geralt grunts, thrusting anew.

It’s deep and everywhere all at once. Jaskier’s mouth hangs open, fucked out noises cutting out of him with every breath. “It’s so good,” he slurs, “you’re so big. I can feel you everywhere.”

Geralt’s head hangs. Golden eyes watch his cock glide in and out of the bard’s arse, marvelling quietly at how he eager he is. “You’ve tightened up,” Geralt grunts, changing his thrusts to be long and languid. He fights to hide the smirk at the whine slipping out of Jaskier’s throat. “You’ve gone so long without my cock, haven’t you, bard? I might just have to plug you up to keep you open. What do you think?”

“ _Geralt_.”

“We’ll go back to Redania, to that store in the back-alley,” Geralt continues on, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s hips. “I’m sure it’s still there. That metal plug. I think we could afford to spend some gold on it, don’t you think?”

Nothing leaves Jaskier more than groans and whines. Because the thought of being left behind in a tavern room, stretching himself out for his Witcher for a post-hunt fuck, when he’s still high on potions and adrenaline; it tightens the coil in his core. _Yes_ , he wants to wail. _Yes, he **definitely** thinks they could spare the gold for it_—

“I have a good boy, don’t I?” Geralt rasps. His thrusts start to quick again, turning into sharp and precise things that ram Jaskier’s prostate with every thrust. Thrums of pleasure get so intense, the bard buries his face into the mattress to hide every noise wrung out of him. “I could keep that plug in you even after I’m done with you. Keep you full of my cum. Do you like that? I’d never need to stretch you again, bard; I’d have my own personal whore.”

And the words don’t lash like they would with others. If anyone else said that to him, he’d scratch out their eyes.

But it’s Geralt – and that _rumbling voice_ and the tight hold he has on him, and how he’s just making Jaskier _take it_ —

Jaskier turns his head, gasping wetly into the bedsheets. “I’d be good for you,” he trembles. “You can do whatever you like with me— _fuck, Geralt, right there_ —”

There’s a knock on the door.

And _fuck that_ —

Jaskier gets his hands underneath him, pushing himself up and back against the Witcher. “Fuck me,” he gasps, groaning when one of Geralt’s hands catches his shoulders and brings him firmly back against him. “Just keep— _shit_ —just keep going.”

And the sounds that come out of his bard are filthy. They would make even the most seasoned of pleasure house mistresses blush.

It must work.

Nothing else comes from the door. They don’t even know if whoever it is has just slunk off back down the hall, or is staying outside and listening in.

But Jaskier doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“You want them to hear you?” Geralt grunts. His hips quicken. His own blood is an inferno. His edge is just _right there_. “Let them hear you, then. Let them know what a good boy you are, how well you’re taking my cock.”

A chorus of groans ring out from the bard. Nothing recognisable as words. All ability to form sentences is starting to slip away.

Geralt’s hands tighten. His grip turns bruising as he chases down his release. And Jaskier will follow him, if not get there before him. Because he doesn’t even have to brush the man’s cock to get him keening with pleasure and release. He’s halfway there already.

Jaskier’s fists tighten in the sheets. “I’m close,” he gasps wetly, “I’m so close, Geralt. Please. Make me come. I’ll be so good for you.”

“My precious lark,” Geralt rumbles. Sweat beads on his skin and trickles down his back. “Make a mess for me, darling. I can feel you trembling. You’re almost there, aren’t you? You’ve been such a good boy. Come for me, Jask.”

“ _Geralt_.” The whine cuts through the air just as Jaskier’s back bows, his hips jerk back, flush against Geralt’s, and he comes. It seizes his whole body, threatening to engulf him and drag him down. He’s distantly aware of Geralt quickening his thrusts, a filthy grunt ripping out of him as he comes, flooding the body underneath him.

Jaskier gasps against the sheets. They’re damp and sour from sweat and release, and he winces at the wet spot beneath him. But his soul just left his body, and it’s hovering somewhere above them, and cannot be bothered to come back down just yet.

Geralt is a bit more with it than he is.

Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of footsteps padding around the room. A wet cloth wipes most of the mess out of him. Jaskier buries his nose into the sheets, breathing in the scents left behind. If they _were_ to wander back towards Redania, completely by accident, of course...it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

He’s being turned. Jaskier opens his eyes – when did he close them? – just in time to watch himself heavily fall into Geralt’s side. His chest is damp with sweat, and it’s cooling. Staving off the worst of the nightly winter chill, he draws the bard’s body close. “Are you alright?” The question rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest.

Jaskier hums. His whole body is numb and tingling, including his mind. It takes him a moment to try and reach for words. “Fantastic,” he sighs into Geralt’s chest, already half-asleep. His former self would be ashamed. The youth who could bed several people in one night, sometimes in one go, and still have enough wherewithal to stay awake afterwards.

But when he thinks back on it all, nothing ever compared to being with Geralt. He’d happily traded in those noblewomen and their husbands, stableboys, tavern maids, kitchen aides and gardeners for one night in Geralt’s bed.

The Witcher presses a light kiss to Jaskier’s crown. “Sleep,” he rumbles, a soft touch trailing up and down his back. It’s the last thing Jaskier hears and feels before he slips away, not to resurface until the late beams of morning light stream into the room.

* * *

He’s loath to leave the bed. Winds howl outside and lash against the stone, while the body flush against him is warm and soft.

But eventually, the tacky, dry feeling in his mouth is too much, and he needs a drink. He tries slipping out as carefully as he can, but Jaskier frowns just as soon as Geralt has drifted too far away. He leans down, dust a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises, eventually setting his feet to the cold stone and standing up from bed.

The bard huffs, but buries his face into Geralt’s pillow and hugs it to him. It will have to do until Jaskier’s _actual_ pillow returns.

He grabs his breeches and a nightgown and pads out into the hallway. With the keep engulfed in darkness, his eyes adjust quickly as he navigates the hallways down to the kitchen. The stones are cold, but nothing in comparison to what it must feel like outside. His heart pangs slightly at the thought of the stables, of Roach. But he’s left here with enough bedding and a warm rug to keep herself warm.

The kitchen is as quiet as the rest of the keep. The remnants of dinner are kept to the side, ready to reheat for tomorrow. Geralt’s stomach rumbles as he looks at the braised shank of venison and grilled vegetables. Grabbing a tankard of water, he picks apart a few fibres of meet and chews idly on them. It’s soft and tender, and the juice alone is so full of flavour that he has to pick at more.

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps on the cobbles. He turns around to spot Vesemir shuffling around the corner, holding the folds of his nightgown.

“Decided to come down and join us, did you?”

He’ll blame the slight flush of colour on his cheeks on the cold. “Vesemir, I-”

The elder wolf waves a hand. “You’re still blessed with youth,” he huffs. “Do what you like with it. But I will not have you, or your bard, starving.”

He nods to a small stack of cleaned plates piled up in a nearby shelf. “Take up what you want. Eat whenever he wakes.”

Geralt swallows. A lump tries to catch in his throat. “Thank you,” he rumbles. Even though the days of the School are gone, this is still Vesemir’s keep. He comes here every winter because he is invited. There could be a year where that invitation is revoked. Until then, he bows his head and treats his teacher and father with as much respect as he can muster at gods-only-know how early it is in the morning.

A small smile dusts Vesemir’s lips. “You seemed to enjoy yourselves anyway,” he chuckles. “Could hear your lark halfway down the mountain.”

“ _Vesemir_.” If he had eaten anymore, he’s pretty sure he would have vomited right there and then. He can’t get his food and water and _leave_ fast enough. The last thing he hears is the echo of Vesemir’s chuckling.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated x


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